


Apple Pie

by Anonymous033



Category: Conviction (TV 2016)
Genre: Alternate Universe, F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-11
Updated: 2017-01-11
Packaged: 2018-09-16 20:36:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,542
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9288608
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Anonymous033/pseuds/Anonymous033
Summary: There’s a woman bent over and trimming the bushes right at the wooden gate; Naomi stops in front of her and asks, “Are you the village witch?”





	

The garden is neater than Naomi expected.

Well—she doesn’t know what she has been expecting, really, but the rows of neatly planted vegetables surrounded by flowering bushes isn’t it. There’s a woman bent over and trimming the bushes right at the wooden gate; Naomi stops in front of her and asks, “Are you the village witch?”

The woman looks up, scowls, and takes a swig from a bottle of whiskey which has seemingly manifested from nowhere. “It’ll cost you your firstborn.”

“Is that how you greet all your visitors?”

The woman—the witch—pauses at that, and her eyes twinkle as if she’s intrigued by Naomi’s reply. “Wouldn’t you like to know,” she says, her grin wide and with a feral edge.

Naomi actually would, but she knows better than to take the bait. “Are firstborns your standard charge for everything? You don’t even know what I’m here to ask. What if my firstborn’s already grown?”

“You don’t look old enough for that,” the witch observes, “but I’ll admit I’m not the best judge of age. _However,_ I do know that your father’s sick. Seriously ill. You don’t have the money to pay for the drugs.”

“Hence why I’m here,” Naomi agrees with a humourless smile. “You keep tabs on everyone in the village?”

“I have eyes everywhere,” the witch answers vaguely.

“Look: I really love my dad. He’s done a lot for me and my mom. And they’re best friends, my parents. I don’t know what I’d do if—” Naomi sighs. “Can you help me or not?”

The witch studies Naomi, and Naomi’s unsure what she’s looking for but steadfastly holds her gaze all the same. She’s younger than Naomi would have expected, Naomi realizes with a jolt, and prettier. And again, Naomi doesn’t know what she has been expecting, but iridescent brown eyes and lips that quirk playfully are not it.

“Alright,” the witch says, turning on her heel and marching towards the house. “I have some herbs. Wait here.”

“Wait—were you serious about the firstborn, though?” Naomi calls after her.

Musical laughter is the only answer provided.

~.~.~.~.~

Her father recovers.

Naomi returns to the witch’s house. The latter doesn’t seem to be engaged in any particular chore this time; she’s just seated on the dusty ground in front of the steps leading down from the wraparound porch of her little clapboard house, her legs stretched out straight and her back inclined in what _has_ to be an uncomfortable manner across the steps.

She looks surprised to see Naomi. “What do you want now?” she asks Naomi, and the mysterious whiskey bottle announces itself.

It’s almost as if she hates being asked favours, Naomi reflects.

But then, Naomi supposes she wouldn’t like being approached just for wishes to be granted, either.

“My dad’s better,” she says, and then extends the package in her hands. “I made you a pie as thank you. I hope you like apple.”

The witch takes the box gingerly. Opening it, she casts Naomi a suspicious glance before giving the pie inside a few sniffs.

“Do you really think I’d try to poison a witch?” Naomi asks.

“You wouldn’t have been the first person to try,” the witch mutters. She holds the box up. “Share?”

Naomi takes a slice and amicably takes a bite, because the witch probably wouldn’t accept her gift otherwise.

When she doesn’t drop dead right on the spot, the witch picks up her own slice.

“Drink?” she offers, and Naomi settles down next to the woman and takes a swig. In for a penny, in for a pound. She’s already baked a pie for a witch, and what is drinking and making merry with said witch after that?

The witch nudges Naomi’s arm. “What about that firstborn?” she asks, but her expression is just teasing enough that Naomi is pretty certain she’s kidding.

“I’m working on it,” she says, and the witch chortles.

~.~.~.~.~

Naomi’s not working on it.

She likes men well enough, but she hasn’t met anyone she’d like to bear a child with; even if she has, how could she possibly go about explaining her pact with the witch to him?

So, she dithers, and the next time she visits the witch _—“You seem lonely,”_ Naomi had said; _“You somehow seem surprised by that,”_ the witch had replied—she steers the conversation clear of the subject.

“Why don’t you pick a different occupation?” she asks instead. The witch’s face falls.

“Social exile,” the witch replies. “My parents aren’t as fond of me as yours are of you, and they’re very powerful.”

“Oh.”

“They found me unmanageable, so they decided … not to have to deal with me at all.”

“I’m sorry.”

“They were normal herbs, you know—” the witch says suddenly. “What I gave your dad. They were very good herbs, but regular all the same. No hocus pocus.”

Naomi contemplates on that. “So, I don’t need to give you my firstborn?” she braves herself to ask.

The witch giggles. “What do you think I’d even _do_ with children? I hate children.”

“Then, why’d you—”

“God, I was made to move to the outskirts of a strange village where I knew no one, and then forced to live as an outcast because I couldn’t answer any questions about how I got here, alone, as a woman. I was so bored. Why _wouldn’t_ I have fun scaring the life out of people?”

“That sounds fair,” Naomi acknowledges, and then the humour of the situation strikes her; before she knows it, both she and the witch are bent over the kitchen table, howling with laughter.

“Hayes, by the way,” the witch says when they’re done wheezing.

“Hmm?”

“My name. It’s Hayes. You probably don’t know, because no one knows.”

Hayes. It suits her.

“I’m Naomi,” Naomi says.

“I know,” the witch—Hayes—replies with a wink, because of course she does.

~.~.~.~.~

“Can I tell you a secret?” Naomi asks, and Hayes puts down the cards they’ve been playing. Naomi chews on her bottom lip.

If anyone could understand her, Hayes would.

“Sometimes I feel like an outcast, too,” she confesses to Hayes. “I—sometimes, I—women. Sometimes I look at women.”

“What do you see when you look at them?” Hayes presses curiously.

“Things I can’t reach.” Naomi’s voice trembles. “Things I’m not supposed to want, but … do.”

“Yeah? Me, too,” Hayes murmurs. For a moment, Naomi thinks Hayes has misunderstood; after all, Naomi’s desires are … unusual, at best. But then, Hayes lifts her chin and stares right at Naomi with dark, determined eyes. “What do you see when you look at me?”

Naomi freezes.

Oh, she sees. She sees a lot. She sees a sharp mind and a sharper tongue; she sees strength and beauty and tenacity; and she _wants._ It coils eager in her heart and heated in her belly, poised but never quite discharging, making her want and want and want and want—

“Never mind,” Hayes says darkly, and the reappearance of the whiskey bottle pushes Naomi into action.

Hayes’ lips are soft and warm. It gives Naomi goose bumps. It compels her to press harder into the other woman, and she’s panting by the time she pulls away to meet the other woman’s dazed expression.

“Did you … find what you want?” Hayes queries, softly and a little hesitantly.

Naomi licks her lips. “Can I do it again?” she asks in answer, and Hayes isn’t done nodding before they’re pressed together once more.

~.~.~.~.~

“D’you realize that if the villagers ever see you with me, you’ll be about as popular as I am?” Hayes asks Naomi some weeks later, when they’re out sunning on the ground. “Which is to say, not at all.”

Naomi shrugs. “Their loss. If what you said all those months ago was true, I don’t want to be friends with anyone who’s tried to kill you, anyway.”

Hayes looks at her appraisingly.

“Besides.” Naomi kicks a pebble. “As long as my parents are okay with it? I don’t care what anyone else thinks.”

“Your parents?” Hayes enquires disbelievingly. “They know?”

“I told them,” Naomi confirms. “They were worried about me at first.”

“But?”

“But I’m capable of making my own decisions, and they know that. They want to meet you someday.”

“Oh, parents don’t like me. I don’t even know how to bake an apple pie to sweeten them up.”

“You saved my dad’s life. I think they’ll be fine. Just bring your usual, enigmatic self.”

“It’s the illusion,” Hayes admits. “It’s—the only thing I can control. There’s really nothing magical about me.”

“Hmm, yeah. I think you showed your hand the day you gave me your ‘magic herbs’ for free. Didn’t even check up on me to make sure I had a man to sire my children. That’s irresponsible witching.”

Hayes snorts and tips her head into Naomi’s shoulder. “I told you, I have eyes everywhere. Besides, why would I get myself front-row seats to something I didn’t want to witness?”

Naomi presses her lips into Hayes’ hair. “You won’t have to,” she promises. “Also? I think you’re wrong. You’re your own kind of magic.”

For the first time since Naomi has met her, Hayes’ smile is a little shy.

* * *

Crossposted to: [Tumblr](http://anonymous033.tumblr.com/post/155719361907/apple-pie-a-hayesnaomi-one-shot-au-the-garden)


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